


Glittering Girl

by flammable_grimm_pitch



Category: The Who (Band)
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Classic Rock, F/M, Fluff, John x Pete if you squint, Kissing, The Who Fic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 10:58:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20704865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammable_grimm_pitch/pseuds/flammable_grimm_pitch
Summary: When your older brother John is forced to bring you along to a gig, he begs you to stay out of trouble. And you do - until you catch Keith Moon's eye.





	Glittering Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by a Tumblr anon - "Something about when you [and Keith] first meet/are introduced, he's totally in awe of you or something of the sort. And The Who are all lil fetuses and it's just super 60s and wow so cute."

“Don’t talk to anyone, don’t think about anyone, and _definitely_ don’t accept anything if someone tries to give you a drink or some pills,” your older brother warned, guiding you into the dimly lit bar where he and his band were booked to perform later that evening. “This crowd can easily get out of hand, and I won’t be able to see well enough to help you if I’m up there playing.”

“John, you worry too much,” you complained, swatting your brother’s arm. “I’m an adult now, so there’s no need to be so overprotective. I haven't even been allowed to come to one of your shows until now - let me live a little, will you?” Glancing around the room, you noticed tall cocktail tables, where small groups stood, sipping their drinks and shouting to be heard over the ruckus that was the starting band. 

“You’re going to be the death of me, I swear to God,” John groaned, pulling at his hair in frustration. “Y/N, you’re the only sister I’ve got, and Mum’ll kill me if you come home high. So please, for my sake, mind yourself tonight?” His bright blue eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep, pleaded with you. 

“Ugh. Fine, but you’re a terrible spoil-sport,” you mumbled beneath your breath. “Can’t do anything fun with you around.” John pressed a brotherly kiss to the side of your head, adjusted his grip on his guitar case, and wandered off towards the backstage door to warm up with his mates. You were left alone, and in desperate need of something to quench your thirst. 

_One drink should be alright, just to tide me over until Maria gets here,_ you told yourself. _What John doesn’t know can’t hurt him._

* * * * * 

Keith Moon, who was once again running late for a pre-gig warm-up, slipped past the line-up of patrons outside the club, by-passing the bouncer checking IDs. Despite his raging headache, the result of yesterday night’s binge, he’d managed to clean up nicely for the gig; his black collared shirt was buttoned at his wrists, and the neckline of his white undershirt peeked out at his throat. His trousers, a hand-me-down from John, were tight, but still allowed him to thrash his bass drums within an inch of their lives. 

“Moonie’s here!” came a cry from the bar, and several men raised their pints toward the door. Keith lifted a hand in greeting, but hoped to avoid any other unnecessary attention. He was in for a dressing-down from Roger, he knew, but didn’t want the boys to know he’d arrived until the last possible minute; this would reduce the amount of time Roger had available to yell at him. 

Before he could sneak his way into the toilets and hide out until just before it was time to go onstage, a bright flash of colour caught Keith’s eye. In the centre of the dance floor, a young woman about his age was dancing wildly about with a girlfriend. Her cheeks were flushed pink with exhilaration, and she appeared to be having the time of her life. She wore a bright red skirt that cut off an inch or two above her knee, and the long sleeves of her tight blouse had been rolled up to her elbows, likely in an effort to cool off. Keith was smitten immediately. Something about the girl seemed familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. What he did know was this: the girl was an angel, and he _had_ to meet her, or it would be the end of him. 

“D’you know that girl’s name?” the drummer asked one of the fellows standing beside him, who Keith also vaguely recognized. 

“Which?” the man asked, trying his best not to slosh his beer onto Keith’s shirt as he spun round on his stool. 

“The one there, the girl in the red skirt,” Keith identified her. “Funny hair, dancing like she’s mental.” The bar patron squinted, not thinking to slide the pair of glasses atop his head down onto his face. 

“Never seen ‘er before,” he said decidedly. “Sorry, mate.” Keith furrowed his brow; not knowing her name was a set-back, but done were the days when it was completely inappropriate to approach her and introduce himself; that was the only option he seemed to have. He sucked in a deep breath, summoned all the courage within him, and wiggled his way through the crowded bar towards the angelic girl on the dance floor. 

* * * * * 

“You’re soooo drunk, Y/N!” Maria shouted – slurred, rather – directly into your ear. “If John sees you, he’ll drag you straight home. You do know that, don’t you?” Despite her words of warning, your best friend didn’t seem to care all that much that you’d downed about three too many shots, or that you’d neglected to eat dinner in favour of sharing drinks with some girls you’d met from Chelsea College. It had been ages since you’d been able to let loose, so John be damned – you were going to have a brilliant night. 

“He’s too busy to notice,” you giggled, raising your hands in the air as you twirled round and round in circles. “Probably snogging Pete backstage.” Maria howled with laughter, and reeled to one side as another dancer bumped her shoulder. The movement seemed to have shifted something in her stomach, because in a matter of a few seconds, her smile was gone, and her face was green with nausea. 

“Ooh, I’m dizzy,” she said, placing a hand on her belly. “Shit, I think I might—” Maria’s words stopped abruptly. As you reached out to steady her, she leaned forward and vomited straight alcohol right onto your white blouse. 

“Oh, that’s rich,” you groaned, glancing down at yourself. “Apparently _I’m_ the one who’s drunk.” Gently, you put a hand on Maria’s back, and guided the poor girl off the dance floor in the direction of the ladies’ toilet. The sea of clubgoers parted for you both, wrinkling their noses in disgust at the state of your blouse. Maria thankfully held herself together until you’d made it into the bathroom, where she continued to bring up the liquid contents into the sink basin. 

“At least we know you won’t die of alcohol poisoning,” you said cheerfully, patting your friend’s back. “Just get it all out. There’s a girl.” You were so busy providing moral support that you didn’t notice the bathroom door swing open. Your attention was drawn, however, when a man’s voice spoke above the sound of Maria’s heaving. 

“Looks like you could use a bit of cleaning up,” Keith observed, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “What’ll your mother say if you come home looking like that?” 

“Aren’t you a charmer?” you replied sarcastically. Keith shrugged, trying to hide the smirk creeping across his face. 

“Some people certainly think so.” 

“Well, if you’re going to comment on my clothes, I’ll expect you to find me something to change into,” you told him. “And if you can’t, I’ll ask you to excuse us, as this happens to be the ladies’ room. Picture on the door had a skirt, if you recall.” 

Your tone of annoyance did nothing to deter Keith. He’d been immediately taken by your free-spirited dancing out in the club, but this new side of you only appealed to him more. He loved a girl with a bit of fire in her. Before you could speak to stop him, Keith had undone the buttons of his shirt and peeled it off. A clean white t-shirt emblazoned with the red, white and blue Air Force roundel – symbolic of the mod subculture – was beneath it. 

“Would you rather the button-up or the t-shirt, love?” Keith asked, regarding you evenly. When you didn’t respond right away, he gestured with his thumb toward your skirt. “T-shirt would probably match best, ‘specially in this crowd.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you stammered, shaking your head at the fellow standing before you. “I can’t take your clothes. That’d be – well, it wouldn’t be right.” 

“But it’s alright for me to let you walk around a club in a sheer blouse with vomit all down your front?” Keith clucked his tongue disapprovingly, and proceeded to strip off his t-shirt and pass it to you. Despite your best efforts, you couldn’t help but sneak a peek at the man’s bare chest. While not a particularly muscly fellow, Keith’s body was toned nicely, and it was clear he’d spent some time at the beach over the summer. 

“D’you like what you see?” he teased, raising an eyebrow. Your gaze had been immediately drawn to the fine, dark hair trailing down from his navel, and he’d seen you swallow hard as you tore your eyes away from him. 

“You wish,” you replied, rolling your eyes. Against your will, colour rose into your cheeks; your body had betrayed your mind. 

“Seems you do, too,” Keith observed, stifling a grin. “But enough of that, I’ll leave you to change.” His dark eyes met yours once more before he turned toward the swinging bathroom door. “Oh, but one last thing, Miss…” 

“Y/N,” you offered, having decided that it the least you could give him in exchange for the literal clothes off his back.. 

“Miss Y/N,” he murmured, enjoying the way your name felt on his lips. “You’re a lovely dancer, and you’ve got eyes like none I’ve ever seen, but…” He stopped, seeming to have lost his train of thought. 

“But…” you prompted gently, pulling him back from wherever his mind had wandered. 

“But I’ll be needing that shirt back at some point tonight,” he finished, winking mischievously before slipping back out into the dark club. You felt your heart beat a bit faster in your chest, and would have continued to think about the handsome, dark-eyed man if not for Maria’s interruption. 

“Did you really just flirt with that tosser while I puked into a bloody sink?” 

* * * * * 

Once Maria was settled into a chair at the bar, a glass of ginger ale in hand, you felt comfortable wandering closer to the stage. Your brother and his band had already started playing, so you’d missed their opening number. The stage lights were too bright for John to see out into the crowd and find you, or so he’d said earlier, but you could see the four men on stage with perfect clarity. 

Roger, the sharply-dressed frontman, belted out the words to a popular Benny Spellman tune, which the crowd seemed to be greatly enjoying. Girls in mini-skirts and knee-high boots were gathered at the foot of the stage, staring up at the boys with doe-eyed grins. Pete, whose nose looked as big as ever, was focused entirely on his guitar. John, whose stage persona seemed about as lively as a dead tree, slapped away at the strings of his bass, his fingers flying faster than you’d ever seen. _Some of these girls would do anything to get into John’s trousers,_ you realized. _Gross._

When your gaze fell on the dark, smooth-haired drummer at the back of the stage, you felt your heart skip a beat. _There’s the chap from the loo,_ you realized. _Keith Moon_. You could have kicked yourself for not recognizing him sooner; he and John went to the pub together every weekend, despite your mother’s distaste for her son’s newfound pastime. Surely Keith had come into the house on occasion, and you’d have met him then? 

“I’d let him bang my drum any day,” you heard a girl beside you giggle to her friend. While the pun was both terrible and rather disturbing, you felt a needle of something else in your chest at the idea of Keith chatting up one of these girls – jealousy, perhaps. You’d only had a few minutes with him, but in that time, you’d felt a connection of some sort. Your consolation, of course, was that _you_ were the girl to whom he’d loaned the shirt off his back. 

You swayed to the music as John’s band played the rest of their half-hour set. The people around you didn’t seem to grow restless, even when chatty Pete took the microphone and gave what felt like a 10-minute introduction to one of the songs he’d written. His compositions really were quite good, but because you’d known the young man so many years, you felt as though you were listening to your own brother drone on about nothing important. 

“Play the song, Townshend!” Keith hollered behind him, earning a hearty chuckle from the audience. Pete glowered at the drummer for a moment, but took his advice and whipped his arm around like a windmill to strike the first chord of their last song. You wove your way back towards the bar to check on Maria, who was listening intently to a story the bartender was sharing with her. 

_Looks as though she’s got things covered there,_, you observed, not wanting to interrupt anything. Instead, you wandered towards the backstage door of the club and let yourself into the dark hall. Using a few holes in the drywall for light, you crept along the passage until you’d reached a shoddy set of wooden stairs, which didn’t look as though they’d be able to hold anything heavier than that noodle of a guitarist shredding onstage. 

When John’s band had finished, you heard the wail of feedback at Pete smashed his guitar to pieces before the crowd. Everyone went wild, which you were sure only encouraged the man more. When the band stepped down into the backstage area, John was holding his bass across his chest, still entirely intact. Pete, however, seemed to have an armful of splinters and coiled wire, which was truly a sad thing to behold. 

“Peter, dear,” you said when he was within earshot, “May I ask where you get the money to buy new guitars?” 

“No,” he answered primly, dropping the pieces into his open guitar case. “No, you may not.” Roger pressed a friendly kiss to your cheek when he saw you waiting for your brother, and asked how you’d enjoyed the show. 

“Would have liked it better if my friend hadn’t gotten sick all over me,” you groaned, glancing down at your borrowed shirt. “But thankfully, a concerned citizen was willing to lend me a spare for the evening.” John squinted in your direction, realizing that he hadn’t noticed any difference in your outfit until now. He beckoned you closer with his index finger, waiting until you’d stepped under the fluorescent backstage lighting to take a good look. 

“Fits you perfectly,” Keith acknowledged, coming to stand beside John. “I think it looks even better on her than on me, wouldn’t you say, John?” Keith’s eyes grazed over your entire body, and he appeared oblivious to the fact that anyone else was in the room – your brother included. 

“What are you playing at, Moon?” John asked, deadly quiet. Pete and Roger exchanged concerned glances; they both knew John well enough to recognize the tone of warning in his voice. Keith, however, had ceased to care about anything but the angel before him. In normal circumstances, he’d have had no issue flirting with some bird backstage; you, however, weren’t just _some bird_. 

“Keith, I didn’t know you were friends with my brother,” you said quickly, shooting the drummer a sharp look. “John’s mentioned you loads of times, but I guess I never clued in, haha.” Despite your attempt at lightening the mood, your brother’s expression remained hard and impassive. If Keith’s head could have exploded, it would have. 

“How d’you know Keith, Y/N?” John asked in a thick monotone. 

“He, umm. Well, funny story, that...” you started, feeling panic rising in your chest. You begged Keith with your eyes to keep his mouth shut, but once the wheels in his head had started turning, there was no stopping him. 

“We shagged in a pub toilet after we got drunk at a party a few months back,” Keith blurted out, to the horror of everyone in the room. 

“Jesus Christ, Keith, she’s his sister,” Pete groaned, covering his face with his hands. “Now we’ll have to find a new drummer. Fucking hell.” Roger walked out of the room, not wanting to witness the death of his newest bandmate. You didn’t even know what to say; how and why had Keith chosen to create such a story? It made no sense, especially if he wanted to keep his teeth. If there was one thing John protected above everything else, it was his only baby sister. 

“Are you fucking joking me right now?” your brother asked through gritted teeth. "My _sister_?" His knuckles were white, he was gripping the neck of his bass so tightly. Keith stared him in the face, and after nearly 10 seconds of silence, let out a roar of laughter, so ridiculous you thought it was fake. 

“Christ, of course I’m joking,” Keith exclaimed, wiping a tear from his eye. “Never seen you go pale like that, Johnny-boy. Of course I didn’t shag your sister. Jesus.” Keith walked up beside you and put a friendly arm around your shoulders. “Her friend puked up an entire bottle of tequila onto her blouse, right on the dance floor, so I offered her the extra shirt I had in the boot of my car. That’s why I was late today.” Keith lied with an ease that amazed you. You’d always thought yourself an excellent ‘weaver of untruths’, as you preferred to call it, but Keith’s story had taken the cake. His tactics had worked – say something so outrageously ridiculous that John would be forced to believe the tweaks he made to the truth. 

“Well, I’m sorry for my reaction, then,” John apologized, glancing between you and Keith. You plastered a convincing smile over your face, playing along with Keith’s chummy behaviour towards you. “It’s just that – well, you know – since my father died, I’ve felt responsible for Y/N’s safety and well-being. I can get a bit overprotective—” 

“Understatement of the century,” you interrupted. 

“A _lot_ overprotective,” John corrected himself. “So yeah. Sorry for plotting your death in my mind, Keith.” John held out a hand, which Keith grasped firmly. 

“You’re a good man, Johnny,” Keith acknowledged. You felt the sincerity of the drummer’s words, and instantly decided that you liked Keith after all. He was ridiculous and brash, flirtatious to a fault, and apparently a skilled liar – but underneath all that, you were beginning to see qualities you really liked. 

“Can we pack up the van now?” Roger called across the backstage area. “It’s past midnight, and my wife’s going to have me skinned if I don’t get home before the sun comes up.” 

“I’ll help too, just give me a minute,” you requested, holding a hand out toward your brother. “Hand ‘em over, John. I behaved myself tonight.” With a heavy sigh, your brother dug out the pack of cigarettes he’d confiscated earlier that day. Although you were an adult, John still felt an incredible responsibility to watch over you, and despite his own smoking habit, he’d been appalled to find cigarettes on your bedroom desk. 

“Keep ‘em out of sight, or Mum’ll have a fit,” John warned you, placing a hand on your shoulder and giving it an affectionate squeeze. “And share one with Keith – he’s gonna lose his mind if he doesn’t have a smoke in the next two minutes.” 

As if to prove John’s point, the drummer plucked a cigarette from the pack in your hand, and pretended to make it disappear. With a dramatic flourish, he pulled it from behind your ear, shouted, “Ta-da!” and placed it between his lips. “Shall we, Miss Entwistle?” he asked, inviting you out into the side parking area to light up. When the heavy metal door slammed shut, leaving the two of you alone and out of earshot of the rest of the band, Keith tucked his cigarette behind his ear like a pencil and immediately set his hands on your waist. 

“You’ve got a death wish, Moon,” you murmured, closing your eyes as Keith kissed you for the first time. Your hands came up and held his face, which he took as permission to continue. The drummer pressed your back up against the building’s brick wall, and his grip on your waist tightened – not to the point of being painful, but in a way that let you know he meant business. 

“I’m not scared of John,” he replied, pressing his body against yours. “You’re an adult, and you can kiss whoever you like.” You smiled against his lips, letting him know that _he_ was whoever you liked. 

“You can’t have your shirt back tonight,” you told him, swatting at his hand when he went to untuck the shirt from your skirt. You still had nothing to wear other than the stained blouse you’d discarded in the bin after slipping into Keith’s shirt. 

“And why not?” he inquired gently, leaning back far enough to get a good look at you. His eyes, dark and warm, were so soft and sweet it made your heart feel as though it might melt. 

“Because if I give it back now, you might not have any reason to see me again,” you said honestly. “My scary big brother will do his best to keep you away, and I’m afraid he can be very persuasive with these sorts of things.” 

“Like I said, I’m not afraid of that old ox,” Keith replied, pressing one more kiss to your pouting lips. “And even if he does break me teeth and blacken both eyes…or if I need a liver transplant because he’s stabbed me with my own rib, or what have you.” He was off on a tangent, but soon came back to his point when you held his chin between your fingers and looked him in the eyes. “Even if John’s angry that I want to see you again, it’ll be worth it to see you smile.” 

“Now then,” he announced in a posh accent, “you stand there and get started on that ciggy, and I’ll go find something to light on fire. That’ll convince your brother that we were actually smoking out here, and not just snogging up against a wall.” With a cackle that, oddly, brought a smile to your face, Keith wandered off into the dark in search of a bridge to burn. _That man is something else._


End file.
